Why this woman won’t change

Are you trying to change your man?   Well, he’s hoping you don’t change.

Why this woman won't change
Photo by Brittany Gaiser on Unsplash

For the first time I can remember, since moving in with Drew, I live much closer to the countryside than the coast. I often whine about needing to get back to the beach to hear the waves, but I seem to be taken in the opposite direction whenever we have some time off together and in that direction is the countryside.

Drew finds his calm in the country; my calm is on the coast.

He may be proud of his wax jacket and Toggi boots, but playing the country gent’s missus is not my brace of pheasants. I mean it’s alright now and then, but where is the sand? The light? The water? The fish restaurant? The fun? And what happened to the people? Perhaps the deer and donkeys ate them all.

I grew up not too far from where I live now, but it might as well be. Our village is a slow-moving trail of noxious fumes away from where I work, my grown up children and my beach-loving grandchildren.  I visited them yesterday and it took me longer to drive there and back than I was able to spend with them.

Much like theirs, my childhood was a series of summers spent splashing in the sea until the sun went down and the sausages were cooked.  I remember how on waking at the weekends, beach bag packed the night before, I would nervously pull back the bedroom curtains and will the weather to be fine.

Drew grew up running around the national park trying to catch and mount the grazing ponies.  During our formative years, before we knew of each other’s existence, I was leaping over crashing waves gulping salty air while he was climbing over wooden stiles inhaling dung.

When the weather and the water were too cold for swimming, I’d spend hours squinting at the pages of my books which occasionally flapped in the sea breeze. Drew, then, would have been learning to shoot, a hobby he still enjoys and although he only ever shoots clays, the fascination for guns is distasteful to me.

Which reminds me to tell you about the bank holiday weekend when Drew ‘taught’ me to handle his in a field in Fordingbridge. Calm down – I’m talking about his rifle!

I now know the following:
you don’t shoot a gun, you fire it;
you don’t pull the trigger, you squeeze it;
it takes two people to lift it up if one of them is me;
it’s always best to point it at the sky;
the wide end should be placed firmly in the shoulder area of the markswoman or she will be propelled backwards shouting ‘bloody hell’ as the weapon goes off!

Well at least I tried.  If our interests differ, there are plenty of things we enjoy doing together which we hadn’t tried before we met, such as antiquing and visiting art galleries. I may be seascape to his landscape, but we are alike in the important ingredients.  We share the same values and humour and so we can support each other’s passions, or sometimes just leave each other to enjoy them. We don’t need to be the same for this to work.  And we don’t have to do everything together either.

Our differences add to our experience and broaden our outlook.

I’m quite happy to scoop up supplies in the supermarket while he washes the cars and even happier to meet with a writing group while he takes his motorbike for a blast with other like-minded blokes.  But it doesn’t matter if our separate excursions don’t coincide and I’m left at home toiling at a computer while he’s out having a pint with his brothers.  I won’t jealously guard his free time from those he likes to be with and wouldn’t expect him to pout if I leave him behind.

We are a couple, but no matter how happy they are for us, everyone in our lives doesn’t always want or need us showing up together because our relationships are our own and in most cases, those people have been around longer than we have known each other.

Drew jokes how women hope to change their men while men hope their women don’t change. Being together enriches our lives and increases our family.  And for us, our differences  fill in the gaps (he’s my calculator; I’m his dictionary), add to our experience and broaden our outlook.

Lately I’m appreciating the cream tea and country pub aspects of the sticks and learning to love rivers.  Drew is happy to indulge me at the seaside on a sunny day if it involves ice-cream and puts a smile on my face.

Why this woman won't change
Photo by Ilya Ilyukhin on Unsplash




The Princess Prerogative

Just because I was wearing a posh frock, I didn’t think I was a princess!


The Princess Prerogative - closetdramablog.wordpress.com
Photo by Ashton Mullins on Unsplash

I’ve never looked more like a Christmas tree than on that balmy summer evening, early in our relationship. Not knowing if it was the kind of occasion I’d enjoy, Drew had nervously invited me to be his ‘plus one’ at a banquet held by one of his business associates. My shiny, green, full-length dress complemented Drew’s dinner suit perfectly, but when the penguin and the Christmas tree arrived for the function, they were told: “You are a month early.”  Not a day, not a week – a whole month!

Convinced I must surely be about to have a tantrum, Drew hastily ushered me back to the car thinking a scene in the car park was preferable to one in the hotel reception.  I, however, felt truly sorry his plan for an opulent evening had gone wrong and beating him up over the diary blunder didn’t occur to me at all. Panic-stricken, Drew assumed I’d castigate him for not only the lack of a seven course meal, but also the wasted time, effort and expense I’d gone to in fashioning myself for the experience. 

Unbeknown to him, the dress and shoes were borrowed and the bird’s nest on my head was the result of my youngest daughter’s very first attempt to arrange an updo.  I was surprised to realise, later, that Drew had been anticipating a hissy fit from the moment we were smugly turned away.  But just because I was wearing a posh frock, I didn’t think I was a princess!  Drew though, was brought up to be a gentleman.

After being single for a few years, I was used to operating independently and found his archaic manners amusing. We still trip over each other whenever we wander around town because he has to make sure I’m always on the inside of the pavement, on his left, as though he has to be ready with a free hand to draw his sword and protect me from a violent assailant. When crossing roads together, a squeeze of my hand lets me know he’s decided when it’s safe, the way I would do years before with my children.

I suppose it was mean to ask him: ‘How do these things work again?’ on reaching yet another door keenly opened for me.  I’d been utilising doors for more than forty years and was pretty sure I had the hang of it.

If you think it’s your prerogative to be a princess, you might throw back a compliment ungraciously and make him feel he’s actually insulted you.  

I’ve now learned something neither of us appreciated before: there’s a difference between being treated like a lady and acting like a diva.  I don’t expect to be regarded as more important than him while Drew insists it’s good manners to carry stuff – even if it’s the lightweight paperback I’ve just bought.  What I hadn’t understood is that he also expects a woman to punish a man for not getting something right because the world revolves around a ‘princess’. I never was like that and don’t think the women in my orbit are either, so I didn’t recognise the princess behaviour in women until Drew pointed it out.

Some women, I’m told, blame their men for almost everything.  Taking the blame is therefore a blue job, no matter how contrived and if you think it’s your prerogative to be a princess, you might throw back a compliment ungraciously and make him feel he’s actually insulted you.

HIM: You look lovely tonight.  PRINCESS: So you think I usually look a mess.

Why not enjoy the praise?  Why invite discord?

It took some adjusting, but Drew has conceded his right to chivalry, not being a medieval knight or nobleman, and accepts my view of courtesy going both ways in our partnership. I’m left wondering if I’ve made a monumental mistake and considering asking for an occasional allowance of princess-ness as a privilege.  I’ve even tested his reaction by exercising this prerogative recently during a conversation about smoking.  It went something like this:

DREW:  If you gave up smoking, you could afford to have your hair professionally coloured and your nails done every month instead of just an occasional treat.

PRINCESS: Oh I’m ugly am I?  Well if I give up smoking, I’ll get fat too and then I’ll have to stop eating which will make me grumpy and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT!  Do you really want that?

He didn’t bite because he saw right through me, of course.  Since the night we were a month early for our luxury dinner, my cards have been on the table.

My first thought as I tottered after him in shoes ill-designed for tarmac was how hungry we were after fasting all day to make room for a feast.  Home was miles away and the only restaurant I recalled spotting en route to the hotel was a notoriously dodgy branch of KFC recently in the papers after a minor celebrity’s father overdosed in the toilet.  At my suggestion, Drew suspiciously transferred us there; he still couldn’t believe there wasn’t a storm coming. I allowed him to open the car door and escort me regally up the steps to join the queue, with me lifting the hem of my slightly too-long, ritzy dress.

As luck would have it, a ‘boneless banquet’ was on the menu, so all turned out splendid despite the cardboard box substitute for a plate and the absence of cutlery.  He was concerned about me stabbing him with a fork anyway.

Sitting opposite a dapper gentleman wearing full evening dress in a busy fast-food outlet tickled me so much, Drew began to catch on and relax although he kept his back to the room.  We couldn’t have attracted any more attention if he’d gone down on one knee right there. Unfortunately KFC don’t do desserts so we then processed to the nearest supermarket to pick up a trifle, resisting the urge to glad-hand passers by who openly stopped passing by to get a good look at us.

The next day Drew’s workmates warned him I might be plotting revenge, which caused him to wobble for a moment, so he called me to check. I only had to remind him how much fun we’d had to convince him he was safe.

Rather than cash in any princess allowance,  I’d always choose fun and harmony.  Even though some of those doors are pretty heavy.









Starting Over

Dating in middle age, it has to be said, is a bizarre experience.

Starting Over - closetdramablog on wordpress
Photo by Clem Onojeheghuo on Unsplash

Really regretting waxing my chin this morning. I’m going out for a meal with Drew tonight and I look like an acid attack victim!

Don’t, whatever you do, tell him you wax your chin, Mum – just don’t.

OK, OK, I promise – unless my face falls off and lands in the curry.


Is it modern or mad to be set up by your own daughter?

Liz’s mission to get Mum out there began with advertising me online, but when I tired of shopping for a match on websites and began to feel it was vaguely distasteful, Plan B was put into action.

 I’m not saying I was actively looking for a lifelong partner; someone to get dressed up for and go out with was all I was really interested in, but no-one seemed to believe me.

After a long marriage and a few years separated, those around me opined I couldn’t be truly happy unless I was paired off in a permanent relationship again.  Apparently, everybody wants to be with somebody.  I had no expectation of that ever happening and instead focused on making sure I chose to be happy with my single status.  Living in hope of finding happiness with a man seemed a sure way of being unhappy until it happened – and it might never happen.

However, I agreed to give Liz’s target male my number and let him know that, as Liz and her partner, Tony, insisted we would get along, I was game if he was.  I wasn’t thrilled to be the chaser – not thrilled at all, but  Drew would never have made the first move.  It had been a very long time since he had been out for dinner with a woman, he’d been divorced less than a year, and dating in middle age, it has to be said, is a bizarre experience.

So, is it appropriate to mention a scalded chin?  Well, I felt I had to clarify the situation in case he was sat opposite an angry, red rash creeping up my face, so a ‘beauty treatment’ was blamed for my strange appearance and he politely assured me that he hadn’t noticed.  Of course he hadn’t because he’d left his specs in the car.  He hadn’t managed to read the menu either and there was no way he’d deciphered the bill when it came because he can’t read a word of print without glasses.

There are glasses in every room in the house we now share, in the shed, both our cars and in my handbag.  Sometimes I catch him with a pair of glasses on his nose and another on the top of his head.